The man who still knows a guy.

Carsten nods. And nods again, slowly, briefly. It’s one of those small nods you use to point at something wordlessly. As if he wanted to say: Watch. It’s about to happen again. At first, I thought it was a habit. Today I know: Carsten only nods when Gassi is simply being Gassi.

Gassi lives on a twelve-meter sailing yacht in the harbor. Mallorca has 550,000 inhabitants. At least, that’s what the statistics office says. Gassi knows about 600,000 of them. It’s the only way I can explain it to this day. Because after just a few minutes on board—we’re currently drinking our coffee—the first fisherman waves and shouts loudly across the piers: “GASSSIE!”. Shortly after, a dockworker walks by, stands in front of us, and smiles blissfully at Gassi for a while. Then an older couple stops their boat at the neighboring pier. I look at Carsten. And Carsten, he nods.

“Mallorca has 550,000 inhabitants. Gassi knows about 600,000 of them.”

We don’t even walk fifty meters before the next dockworker gets off his forklift, runs up to Gassi, pats him on the shoulder, and continues on his way. Two boats down, someone calls out: “Tonight?” Gassi gives a thumbs-up. Apparently, that is enough as a complete schedule. A delivery van stops in front of the harbor exit. The driver jumps out, presses a warm paper bag into Gassi’s hand, and drives on. Two ensaimadas. Still warm. I reach for my wallet automatically. Gassi looks at me as if I’d just suggested paying admission for the sunrise. “What for?” he asks. I look at Carsten. Carsten nods. Not at me. Not at Gassi. Just into the situation. As if he were saying: See?

“Gassi doesn’t need insider tips. The insider tips need Gassi.”

An older gentleman is watering his geraniums. When he spots Gassi, he puts down the watering can, quickly disappears into the house, and waves for Gassi to follow him, who disappears as well. I look at Carsten, he looks at me. Carsten... nods. And circles his toe on the ground in such a strange way. But before I can wonder if that means anything, they both come back, the gentleman with a bottle of red wine. “That was actually for Christmas.” Gassi accepts it. “Pity about Christmas.” Both laugh. Twenty meters further on, a police car stops right in the middle of the street. The window goes down. “Everything okay?” “Everything okay.” “Good.” The car drives on. Shortly thereafter, a butcher calls from his shop door: “Wait!” He disappears into the back, comes out with a long knife, cuts two paper-thin slices of jamón, and hands them to Gassi. I get one too. No one asks who I am. I look at Carsten. Carsten nods.

“This way,”

says Gassi and turns into a narrow alley. In front of an old wooden door, he knocks twice. Behind it lies a small courtyard with lemon trees, grapevines, and a set table. An older lady comes out of the kitchen, smiles, and says simply: “Nice that you’re here.” Moments later, bread, olives, fish, and wine are on the table. I don’t even bother asking for a menu. Instead, I look at Carsten. He’s already nodding again...

About WOW F!NCA

Not every finca is a WOW F!NCA. That’s why we don’t have many of them.